


accustomed to your face

by perennial



Category: My Fair Lady, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: F/M, My Fair Lady AU, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:18:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3959026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perennial/pseuds/perennial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>STARRING:<br/>Tauriel as Eliza Doolittle<br/>Thranduil as Henry Higgins<br/>Gandalf as Col. Pickering<br/>Legolas as Freddy<br/>with<br/>Galadriel as Mrs. Higgins</p>
            </blockquote>





	accustomed to your face

**Author's Note:**

> (some minor canon elements have been adjusted for plot purposes)

There are no gossips among elves, that is one mercy—nothing like some of the humans Tauriel observed among the Lake Town refugees. The dwellers of Mirkwood know what she did and what forgiveness she received. They do not question their king’s judgment (as she had so often been inclined to do—she and the king’s son, too, both blinded by love, misplaced as it might appear); another mercy upon mercies.

Time passes differently for immortals but grief heals in much the same way among all living creatures, and hers was a clean wound. She looks up one day and realizes two years have passed, and when she thinks of Kili it is with fondness, and thankfulness for what they shared albeit briefly. After the battle she slipped back into her old life like a fish into a stream, and what changes she encountered were more external than otherwise. Even now, years later, her people still face the repercussions of that day, those lives lost, those parts of a community that could ill spare even a fraction of the multitude torn from it.

Little distinguishes one day from the next, except the change of season. She lives quietly. There is no time to be lonely; she has always demanded excellence from herself, and the forgiveness she now lives under drives her to seek perfection. She will not give him a reason to doubt his decision. She works hard, and when she is called upon to rest and celebrate—for there is always another festival, always a reason to dance in the moonlight or under the falling leaves—she does so carefully, always smiling lest she be thought ungrateful, never ebullient lest she be thought heartless; too many still live with loss.

The halls of the Elvenking are busy, and she has plenty of companionship among the Guard. There is always an option when she needs to fill her head with noise. She has never had many friends. Kili is dead, the prince is gone, and the king—well. The king is her king, never a friend. There was a time, though, when he listened to her, when she was of value, when she held a distinct role in his sphere. When she makes her reports now, she feels as though she has faded into nothing more tangible than a moonbeam. He looks through her, and nods, and dismisses her. She misses the shared respect; she misses how much she had without realizing it, those years when she thought him cold. There is only one person to blame for the severance.

~

When the gray wizard from the War for the Mountain arrives without invitation or announcement, Tauriel is not initially sure if the king will offer him the hospitality that is his due. There is history there, everyone knows, and not all of it good.

In the end the two land on peace and Gandalf is offered a home in the greenwood for as long as he cares to stay. His purpose there is not immediately evident; there is no urgency to his movements or words; he seems to want nothing more than to walk among the trees and tell stories to those who care to listen.

Rumors fly. Danger was averted, they thought—is more coming? Perhaps he is hiding; perhaps he is just tired. Everyone knows his preference for the rulers of Lothlorien and Rivendell; if he is looking to enjoy himself he would not have chosen the companionship of Thranduil. Nothing about this place is dear to him—but that is understandable; it is easier to see more clearly when personal attachment is absent. The choices one must make become clear and cold as glass. Does he require the counsel of a king in order to make a far-reaching and difficult decision, as these great ones must sometimes do? Whatever the reason, he has chosen to bury himself in Mirkwood for a time.

She envies him. To have the freedom to roam and settle where one wishes—to have the luxury of an open door to the house of any king in the world—to have the great responsibility of his role, a knowledge of his own necessity and value—there are moments when she thinks she would carry the weight she can see in his eyes if only for the sensation of it pressing against her, holding her down to the earth. This particular wish usually follows any session with the king. But then, stepping into the familiar paths between the tall black trees, she will come back to herself with a gasp, grateful to be free of the heaviness of her grief, anxious to never enter that darkness again. Even a life as light as a moonbeam is better than one of stabbing heartbreak.

~

The first fireflies of summer are spotted and the fortress empties itself into the woods. Music floats through the air, bare feet hit the ground, skirts swirl over the grass. The elves dance and sing, sound and movement a personified reflection of diamond stars in a black sky. Nothing like the raucous, colorful celebrations of Men or, Eru forbid, dwarves… but the celebrations of Mirkwood have their own flavor.

Her heart leaps at the sight of the vaulting forms in the near-darkness. They light no fires, needing none; every ray of starlight, every blinking firefly, is torch enough. She loves their wildness, their quicksilver energy, led as ever by the Elvenking, who turns nearly feral in moments like these, as though his true nature is one of sap and bark, more green-leafed than red-blooded.

They follow his lead. They may not shake the earth with their noise but theirs is a more dangerous dance, in truth. Not because they lose themselves into the natural world, but because they dissolve in a manner of ebb and flow, giving themselves and receiving more back. They will end tonight fuller, swollen with all they absorbed of the trees and rocks and waterfalls, the land left layered with them. This is how they make their home, and this is how they keep it.

All spread out through the wood, weaving music through the trees. They gather thickest around the Red Oak, the hub in the spinning wheel, where a bonfire is lit like a splash of gold to alert the footsore where honeyed wine awaits them.

Tauriel would join if her hands were caught up and she was pulled by smiling, singing faces into the dance, but she is left alone.

Her favorite place is along the river, which transforms into a line of silver in the moonlight. She walks along it as she has so many times before, knowing its every pebble like she knows the ridges of her fingers. After a few hours she catches sight of the steady point of light within the trees and she makes her way to the Red Oak. There she is given a drink that burns and soothes simultaneously, and she unconsciously, automatically steps into the line where gold and black just touch, so that she is not outside the circle of light the fire casts but is not visible to those within it.

She watches the revelers, absorbed. They are lighthearted tonight, happy to greet the change of season, and the relief in the air is almost tangible: one more day gone; one more step out of the crushing black morass that the wake of the war swept them into. Most days, now, they are again who they were two years ago.

From her left, a voice speaks to her. She almost drops her cup when she realizes who it is.

“Why do you not enjoy the dance, Tauriel?”

“I beg leave to contradict you, my lord; I offered no protest to dancing.”

“And less exertion.”

“My lord himself does not join the revelry,” she parries lightly, though she is surprised, having seen him lead out the dancers as dusk fell.

For a moment she thinks he will not answer; then he says, “I was in conference with the Lady Galadriel.”

She has never seen the Lady of Lorien, though she has heard great things of her beauty and greater things of her wisdom and kindness; so it is with not a little breathlessness that she inquires, “Is the lady arrived here as well?”

“No,” he answers, and she remembers suddenly the strength of power that allows the Elvenking direct access into another’s mind. He refers to it rarely, but she knows that he can communicate with someone even in distant Lothlorien with all the clarity of standing beside them, and that Galadriel’s powers are even greater than his. Legolas’ abilities took after his mother’s: a greater awareness of the world as a whole, as though stretching out hands into the far places and knowing which way the wind blows across the grass—or into something close, a living body, and hearing the blood that rushes through its heart. The prince helped her hone and extend her own natural abilities, though her skills are a far cry from his.

She cannot help but envy the king his mental bridges. It would be a whole new way of opening the world.

Her thoughts snag on the notion. Her mind races over the possibilities, vivid visions suddenly bursting in her head.

She looks at Thranduil, wondering. Does she dare?

He throws off his robe and joins the dance.

~

Dawn creeps up over the horizon. They drift inside, some to rest, some to work, some to continue their revels over a breakfast board with others who do not yet know fatigue.

Tauriel goes to her chamber and stares into the darkness, testing her resolve. Satisfied, she collects what she came for and emerges back into the light. On silent feet she makes her way slowly to the throne room, where she knows the king to be.

She rounds the corner and hesitates at the sight of Gandalf, comfortably smoking a long pipe in a large chair near the table where Thranduil stands with arms bowed open over a large unrolled scroll.

Then the king looks at her and she forgets the wizard is present.

“Tauriel,” he says, her name both an acknowledgement and a question. The wildness has not completely left his eyes; he is too restless for niceties, and he waits with short patience for her to announce her purpose there. There is no hint of a smile in his face.

He spoke to her tonight; it gives her boldness.

“My lord. I have come to beg a boon from you.”

He inclines his head, indicating that she should continue.

She speaks with precision and clarity. “My lord, I seek the skill to hear and speak into another’s mind with the adeptness that you do.”

The silence is deafening. Finally he says, “Why would you request such a thing?”

 _Because I am tired,_ she thinks. _I am weary of the glances, the hesitation, the caution. I want them to know that I am here by choice, not merely because you did not have me executed. I want to give them a reason to forgive me._

She says, “The benefits will be countless. Orders given in perfect silence. Plans made that none can overhear. The ability to anticipate another’s move, or locate someone lost or injured. Our soldiers will be a fluid force through the forest, even more so than now.”

He studies her. When he does not speak, she continues, “I will use this ability for the good of our people, my lord. I will dedicate every energy to furthering their safety and prosperity.”

He gestures carelessly. “It makes no difference.” His tone is dismissive. “It is impossible.”

She opens her mouth to protest. His ice-blue eyes meet hers. “You are Silvan. Yours is not the right sort of mind. You do not have the capability, the right threshold. You might ask to become a skin-shifter and the answer would be the same. It is impossible.”

Gandalf puffs thoughtfully. “Perhaps.”

The Elvenking’s eyes slide to him. Gandalf exhales and from his mouth floats a ship made of smoke, perfect to its wind-filled sails. “Perhaps not.” He glances at the king. “With the right teacher.” He glances at her, the twinkle back in his eye. “And the right—and, dare I say, very _necessary_ —moral support.”

Thranduil casts a long look at him; Gandalf meets his eye, and they are silent for so long that she is suspicious, though she knows not of what.

Finally the king turns his face again toward her. His expression is unreadable, so she does not know whether to feel hopeful or chastised.

“It will be grueling,” he tells her, “and time-consuming.”

Her heart surges upward. “I am not afraid of difficulty. Nor I do not ask you to aid me without compensation, my lord.” She holds out her one thing of worth—legitimate treasure, this, taken from the depths of the Lonely Mountain: a golden pearl the size of her thumb, so pure and perfect that it glows in even the faintest light. Balin gave it to her, saying it would have been part of Kili’s portion, saying it was only right.

The king looks at her offering and she cannot tell if the twist of his mouth denotes amusement or scorn. “Keep your jewel. I have no use for it.”

She drops her hand and her eyes.

“I will give you the opportunity you ask for,” the king says, his voice louder now, filling the vastness of the room, “for so long as you apply yourself to the task with due diligence.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“You will curse me soon enough.” He turns back to the table covered with scrolls and maps. The last thing she sees as she departs from the room is the Gray Wizard, who puffs steadily at his pipe and watches her go with smiling eyes.


End file.
